Revenge For Bin Laden

By Frederick Shelton

Derick Steele is a former military interrogator who now contracts his services to the CIA. His methods do not involve primitive and ineffective techniques such as water-boarding or electrocution. They are far more advanced and effective.
During the interrogation of mid-level ISIS member, Steele learns that ISIS has rejoined with Al Qaeda. One link leads to another and Steele eventually surfaces a horrifying discovery: Their combined forces have planned to attack several American cities on the 4th of July. And with the help of a Russian arms dealer, one of those attacks will be with a 10 kiloton nuclear device.
What follows is an action packed game of chess in which Al Qaeda seems to have all the major pieces. They are determined to achieve one thing: Revenge for Bin Laden.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frederick Shelton
• Release date: Dec 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311926722

Book preview

This book is dedicated to my wife my daughter and my mom. My dream come true, my dream come to life and the root of all my dreams.

It is also dedicated to John Smith. This book couldn’t have happened if it weren’t for the nights of drinking single malt Scotch with a brawny, tattooed son of a bitch who I met golfing on Coronado Island. He made clear that nothing in this book is classified but he was everything that made this book possible.

Revenge for Bin Laden

Forward

To properly interrogate a subject, you must first understand what motivates them. The motives for committing acts of terror are largely the same as those identified by spies seeking to the convert locals of a foreign country. People will commit acts of espionage and terror for the same reasons they will spy on and betray their own country:

1. Money. This is always the weakest motivator. Locals who provide intel for money are the least reliable. Subjects who have been directly or indirectly involved in acts of terror or espionage, because they were paid to do so, are the quickest and easiest to break.

2. Ideology. Toward the end of the Cold War, it was easy to convert or interrogate subjects because their ideology was crumbling before them. Corruption, greed, concentration of power and all the problems Socialism was supposed to solve, permeated the Soviet Union. Religious ideology is a very different matter and the motivation is so strong, many subjects have already planned to die for their cause. This is a much stronger motivation and requires much more skill and advanced techniques to break.

3. Revenge. When there is an extremely strong personal motivation, such as the killing of a family member(s) by a foreign entity, the motivation is the strongest and the subject is most difficult to break.

The ultimate nightmare for an interrogator is a subject whose motivations are extreme in both ideology and revenge.

Chapter 1

The Patriot

Asmara, Eritrea

Sometimes the best and brightest become the worst and darkest. Circumstances, twists of fate or even a single decision can change destinies of greatness into something else altogether.

Vladimir Zorotkin had the qualities that were admired in the youth of any country. He was extremely intelligent, athletic and patriotic. His family and friends enjoyed his good natured humor. His teachers admired how hard he worked and everyone was in awe of his chess skills. His fencing coach referred to him as Little Sidyak after the famous Russian swordsman of the 1940’s. He was one of those people everyone knew was destined for greatness.

Vlad lived in the city of Kiev, Ukraine, in the Soviet Socialist Republic. By the time he was thirteen, his academic and athletic performance had attracted the attention of the KGB.

When Vlad was approached about joining the Soviet Special Forces, he was as thrilled as any teen-age boy could be. It was the equivalent of a Western youth being told he’d just been selected to be James Bond.

Vlad was to become a member of the elite Special Operational Forces known as Vympel. Vympel, also known as the KGB Spetsnaz Group V was the KGB’s equivalent of America’s Navy Seals combined with the CIA Clandestine Operations agents.

All members of Group V were elite military operatives. They were trained masters of assassination, long term infiltration and espionage. Vympel operators often lived undetected in foreign countries for years or even decades.

Everyone in Group V was multi-lingual and by the time he was twenty, Zorotkin could speak English and Arabic fluently.

Vlad was excited to protect the greatest nation in history. He lived in a country where the people and the state worked together - not for some corrupt capitalists like the American Military Industrial Complex, but for the good of the Soviet people.

His first assignment was as a military operative in Afghanistan. While there, he learned to hate not just the Afghans, but also the Americans who supplied their Stinger missiles. It was one of those missiles that had killed Vlad’s brother Vasili, the helicopter pilot.

The combination of Vlad’s training and vengeance turned him into a lethal assassin who was credited with over eighty kills in only a few years. He didn’t kill regular foot soldiers; he was assigned well protected, HVT’s or high value targets. Unfortunately, according to Vlad’s count, only twenty three of them were Americans.

After years in Afghanistan, Vlad was called back to Moscow for a new assignment. His heroics and ability to remain virtually undetected had been noticed by high ranking Politburo members who decided he had earned the most important assignment a member of Vympel could receive: Washington D.C.

His handler had arranged for Vlad to work as a janitor in the office building of a U.S. Senator. The job of janitor was among the most sought after by spies. It offered access to secure areas, anonymity and best of all, people often spoke more freely in front of janitors than in front of peers or superiors. Janitors could be in plain sight and still be almost invisible.

Zorotkin had been on assignment in Washington for six years and had proven himself an invaluable asset, when the unthinkable happened. He watched as the Soviet Union collapse before his eyes. At first he thought it must be American propaganda but the television broadcasts showed the protests, the revolutions and finally, clips of people tearing down the Berlin Wall in Germany and statues of Lenin in Moscow.

Vlad’s handler, whose voice had shown more stress and when questioned, offered answers that had become more and more evasive, simply disappeared. Zorotkin called the alternative numbers he’d been provided for emergencies, left the coded message and never heard back.

Everything was in turmoil. The KGB and GRU had planned for every contingency except one: the possibility that one day, their country would simply cease to exist.

People who had been loyal to The State and the ideals it held most dear, suddenly vanished after pilfering the coffers of a nation on the verge of rebirth.

Zorotkin had spent years gathering intelligence on a local senator and even more valuable intel on the senator’s son but with the collapse of the Soviet Union, he became a spy without a country. His parents and brother were dead and the years he’d spent on his current assignment, left him alone and isolated.

The situation was one for which no spy had ever been trained, so Zorotkin had to improvise. He took time to examine and evaluate his surroundings. He’d been trained to adapt and excel in the worst of circumstances and now, they were here. Upon reflection, Vlad determined these were not the worst of circumstances. He simply needed to change his perspective. It was time to think like a capitalist.

Like the Soviets, Americans were a likeable people with a corrupt government. This was the case, the world over. People wanted a decent life, a chance at success and the hope that their children might do better than they did. Politicians wanted power and were willing to sacrifice the well-being and lives of those they represented, in order to get or keep it.

During his assignment in Washington, Vlad had lived a meager existence so as not to attract attention. Now he had choices. He could start a business, work hard and hope that he obtained success like so many Americans did. This was tempting because the odds of success in legitimate business were better in America than just about anywhere in the world.

His other alternative was to go to L.A. or New York and use his skills to work his way into the Russian mafia. The first choice offered honor but also required years of hard work with no guarantee of success. The second was a choice he’d never imagined himself considering but it offered quick reward and almost certain success.

Los Angeles was warm and had a reputation for being filled with beautiful women. Vlad was part of the Russian Mob in L.A. within weeks.

He killed enemies outside the organization and his rivals within it. He leveraged his position so he could bring people of his choosing to America, including the man who would eventually replace the head of the organization.

His budgetary discipline and other skillsets allowed him to go out on his own within a short period of time. He started as a paid assassin, accepting and successfully completing contracts that seemed impossible. After enjoying the greater freedom and after a couple years, he leveraged his cash and expanded contacts into the more lucrative role of dealing in arms and information.

He continued to expand his client base beyond his Russian roots. His ability to speak Arabic helped him connect with what eventually became his biggest client.

Vlad often thought about how unforeseeable events had taken an idealistic and good-natured schoolboy, and turned him into the monster he saw in the mirror every morning. Nowadays, all he wanted was to escape the life that had been forged in the fires of necessity, and live as the honorable man he should have become. He should have been a Hero of the Soviet Union.

Instead, he woke up in the wee hours of the morning, fighting off nightmares and using drugs and alcohol to excess, until he could sleep again. He had no friends. Whores were his only female companions.

Zorotkin had learned that the world was capitalist by nature, so while he wanted out of his life, he was not about to retire until he could do so with wealth.

Then he would live out his secret dream. If he had told any of his former comrades of this dream, they would have laughed out loud. Someday he would move to an island in the Caribbean. He would donate generously to the poor and teach children how to play chess. He would buy supplies for local schools and hospitals. He would be respected and admired by the locals.

Eventually, he would meet a woman and because he was no longer a monster, she could love him for the man he would then be. But first he needed to finish the business at hand.

He looked at the current leader of Al Qaeda, Faouzi bin Ali Aziz aka The Surgeon. The head of Al Qaeda looked exactly as one might imagine. He wore the traditional robes and ghutrah head dress of Afghanistan. He had a large knot in the center of his forehead, a scraggly beard that was streaked black and gray and the dark eyes behind his glasses radiated pure evil.

The Americans have decided you are to be their next target. They are sending both assassins and drones to kill you. Zorotkin began.

What do you suggest? Once upon a time, Aziz would have laughed and mocked at such threats but in recent times, the Americans had publicly used drones and secretly used CIA assassins, to kill dozens of Al Qaeda and ISIS leaders.

Today I provide information, not suggestions. Vladimir Zorotkin was always careful with this religious fanatic.

"Hold fast, all together, by the rope which Allah stretches out for you, and be not divided among yourselves". This was a verse the Surgeon used repeatedly to unite Al Qaeda and ISIS.

The Surgeon quoted Al-`Imran 3:103. It was rumoured Aziz could recite over a thousand verses of the Koran by heart. When angered, he was prone to do so more than normal.

What do you want to do? Vladimir asked.

"They sought revenge that Allah by His messenger should enrich them of His bounty." Again The Surgeon quoted the Koran. His memory was as strong as his bloodlust.

We will strike them. We will rain the fire of the Most Holy down upon them. We will give them a day which will be one thousand times more horrifying than The Day of Allah’s Victory. Aziz used the phrase members of Al Qaeda used to refer to 9/11/2001.

With our new alliance, we will bring them to their knees and break their will. We will avenge Sheik Bin Laden with fury! Aziz’ voice rose as he spoke.

Zorotkin was pleased. Fear and anger were the most profitable of emotions. The revenge Aziz wanted would require Zorotkin’s expertise and arms. It would not be long before Zorotkin was sipping Cuba Libre’s on a Caribbean Beach.

How much time? Vladimir asked.

I will talk with those in our new alliance and those in The Kingdom. Like his predecessors going all the way back to Sheik Osama bin Laden, the Surgeon had many family members in Saudi Arabia. It was no secret they were the largest financiers of both Al Qaeda and ISIS. What was a secret was that the two organizations had rejoined.

We will gather what we need from the supporters of jihad. Then we will prepare. All things happen when Allah decides.

Zorotkin’s frustration increased. The two cousins who led ISIS and Al Qaeda had decided that the next time they attacked America, it would make 9/11 look small by comparison. This could mean weeks, months or even years.

"Insha’ Allah." The Ukrainian replied, hiding his irritation. He paused for a moment, looking at the Egyptian cleric and then looked downward, remaining quiet.

What is it? The cleric asked him as he anticipated would be the case.

I have finally learned how the Americans have become so much more effective in their attacks. They been using a new interrogation team for over a year now.

Both men knew that for over a year, the blows to both Al Qaeda and ISIS had been severe. Gone were the days of gaining world sympathy because an American drone had hit a wedding or other civilian target.

Worse, the Great Satan was no longer taking out pawns, they were taking the major pieces. The leaders of both terrorist organizations were disappearing like the leaves of a tree in autumn. Aziz himself would have been killed in one such drone strike, were it not for the fact that he had been unexpectedly delayed.

Tell me about these interrogators. Aziz’ face relaxed and he waxed analytical. Zorotkin had seen these bi-polar shifts often.

This team is very experienced. They are the ones who ruined the Millennium Attacks. Zorotkin referred to the attacks planned by Al Qaeda, which were thwarted by U.S. intelligence services in 1999 and 2000. He saw the anger return momentarily to Aziz’ eyes.

If successful, those attacks would have blown up the L.A. Airport, a navy battleship and more. Instead, Al Qaeda had lost several faithful warriors for nothing.

I have learned, they were deactivated when the new president was elected in 2001 but returned just over a year ago. It was they, who led the Americans to Pakistan. Do you remember the spy who the Americans paid to get out of Islamabad?

Zorotkin was referring to an undercover CIA agent who had killed two Pakistanis when they tried to ambush him, and was captured by the Pakistani government. Without any explanation, the American government paid two million dollars for his release.

Yes, of course. I was told he was an American CIA spy by one of our faithful in the ISI. Aziz referred to Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence agency, which was their equivalent of combining the CIA and FBI.

When have the Americans ever publicly bought freedom for one of their spies? Especially one who they claimed did not work for them?

The cleric replaced his glasses, stroked his silver beard and replied.

Never.

"Exactly. Never. When the new American President took power, he gathered all of the American military and spy services and told them he had only one goal in the holy land: to find and wipe out all who serve Allah in Jihad, especially Sheik bin Laden." Zorotkin paused to let this sink in and then continued.

This new team is responsible for finding and killing those who lead you and your cousin’s organization. They no longer concern themselves with the body of the dragon. They seek only the head. Zorotkin knew how to instill the emotions that always provide most profitable: anger, hatred, revenge and in this case, fear.

The Surgeon looked directly into Zorotkin’s eyes for several moments. Even for the incredibly tough Ukrainian, this was unnerving. Pure evil lay behind those black orbs.

Why has this team you speak of, returned after being gone for so long? his voice hissed the question.

"Your cousin has gained much attention from the public with his internet beheadings. But more importantly, it is his seizure of the oil rigs which has angered the oil companies and banks.

The corporate masters have put pressure on their puppets in the American Congress and the president. Your cousin’s desire to behead people on the internet, has given great public support for more attacks."

Aziz’ eyes narrowed at the corruption and greed of the Great Satan. Zorotkin continued.

My source tells me that a senior member of their CIA, told the new president about the past successes of the group. After hearing about them, the president called the members of this team personally and offered to make them rich if they would help kill all who lead jihad.

Zorotkin paused to give dramatic effect to his next sentence. He has offered this team a bounty for each head they bring him. It is this group, who will eventually lead the Americans to you.

The cleric suddenly sat up straight and snarled. One small team of interrogators! He slammed his bony fist on the table. Who are they? Where are they? Aziz demanded.

I don’t know. At first I thought they were a fabrication. Since the Americans started capturing and killing your leaders, I have been working hard to find them. It took much effort and expense simply to verify that they exist. Now I am certain of all that I have shared with you.

You shall be rewarded, as always but I must know who they are and where to find them.

Of course this evil little troll wanted to know who the interrogation team was. It was one thing to be brave when he sent others to their deaths; it was another when his own life was threatened.

Zorotkin already knew he would be able to give The Surgeon what he wanted. He had the ultimate asset in place: An American politician.

Zorotkin also knew he could get more money if he made it seem difficult to get such information.

More money. In his wildest dreams, Zorotkin had never imagined he would end up being such a capitalist.

We know the fate of those who fight Allah and His Messenger. I will get you the information you need but it will be expensive.

I will arrange it.

I will not rest until I discover who this enemy is. Zorotkin replied.

There is one other thing I want from you. For this, you will rich beyond your dreams. The Surgeon said.

What is it? Zorotkin asked.

When he heard the reply, he hesitated. There had long been rumors of nuclear devices that had gone missing from the Soviet arsenal.

Chapter 2

Three Guests

Terrorist Compound, Location Unknown

Derick Steele wasn’t a shooter or operator like the Navy SEALs, Army Rangers or CIA operatives whom he accompanied on missions. Although trained in combat by the Force Recon Marines (arguably, the most deadly special forces group ever to exist), Steele was what operators teasingly referred to as support staff.

At just over six feet tall and just under one hundred eighty pounds, Steele bore no resemblance to the powerful, brawny warriors with whom he traveled. With his slim build and chiseled features, he looked more like a model than a SpecFor operative.

Steele’s work began after a rendition (the polite word used when governments kidnapped people). His particular skill was interrogation and there was no one in the world better at it. Derick Steele was to interrogation, what Freud had been to psychology.

Interrogation was done one of two ways. If the interrogator had the luxury of time, soft techniques had always proven most efficient. But if time was an issue, other techniques needed to be employed.

Steele viewed primitive techniques such as beatings, cuts, electrocution or water-boarding with disdain. If someone was willing to blow themselves up for Allah, shooting them in the leg or waterboarding them, wasn’t going to get results, at least not quickly.

Unlike in the movies, subjects would simply lie to buy time. Usually, they had a legend memorized that would include a believable target and detailed plan of attack. So after giving a believable amount of resistance, they would send the interrogator or his force off on a wild goose chase. By the time they realized they had been duped, the real attack would have taken place. Other, more effective methods were needed in such circumstances.

Steele used methods that only a few people in the world knew how to employ. He literally wrote the book on interrogation. At least the one that was currently being taught to an elite group of military and CIA interrogators.

Usually, Steele waited at a Black Site until the teams that carried out renditions returned with their subjects. Such sites were all over the world, hidden in old homes, mental institutions, on ships and even aboard airplanes.

Steele was currently in what looked like an ancient prison. He was groggy and disoriented. He lifted his head to look around and realized he was bound to a hospital gurney. His left arm had been cut severely and there was blood all over his fatigues. His forehead throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat.

He looked around the dimly lit room and saw gray stone walls that glistened with moisture. He couldn’t remember where he was. Afghanistan? Pakistan? Turkey? Try as he might, he drew a blank.

There were IV’s running from his arms through the rings of a crude, metal hanger and into a glass container that would easily hold two or three gallons of blood. Steele watched as the red fluid traveled out of his arms and dripped slowly into the containers. He was dying.

Derick woke up and untangled himself from the sweat-soaked sheets. He looked at the clock next to his bed and saw that for the third time in as many days, he’d awoken from a nightmare at three a.m. It wasn’t hard to figure out what his psyche was telling him. It was time to get out.

He thought about trying to live a normal life. He wasn’t sure what occupation being an interrogator had prepared him for but there had to be something better than what he was doing. He could enjoy the white sand beaches and perfect weather of San Diego. He might even take another shot at a relationship.

The problem in leaving his career was that although he earned a substantial income, he spent a lot of it.

His home was nice but other than some extra security measures, not overly extravagant. However, he owned a Porsche 911, a Ducati motorcycle and his bar was filled with single malt Scotch, Hennessey, Bombay Sapphire, dark beer and expensive wines.

Steele had dived from boats into blue oceans and from planes into blue skies. He almost always won at poker and almost always lost betting on sports.

His life had become a repeating cycle, half of which was military operations, during which he invaded the minds of subjects, traumatized their psyches and scarred his own soul in the process. Between assignments, he escaped the stress of his job with travel, adrenaline rushes, meaningless sex and getting drunk or high or both.

He needed to get out and as soon as he had enough money, he would. At least, that was what he kept telling himself. For now, it was three in the morning and he needed to get some sleep.

He got up, padded to the bar in the den and poured himself a triple shot of Glenlevit Scotch. After downing it in one gulp, he turned the television on, lit both the joint and the cigarette that were in the ashtray next to the couch and began watching reruns of The Three Stooges. Hopefully, he’d get a few hours’ sleep before he caught his flight in the morning. He could sleep more on the long flight overseas.

Derick Steele was severely damaged goods.

CIA Black Site, Diego Garcia

Diego Garcia is a long narrow strip of land that curves in such a way, it looks as if someone had drawn the foot of a ballerina, arched to stand on its toes, in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

The island is over a thousand miles from the nearest continent and is home to a U.S. Navy base. What is not known to the public is that it is also home to a CIA black site used for the interrogation of HVT’s or high-value targets.

We’re here, sir. Steele said waking a groggy Lt. Commander Wainwright.

What time is it? Wainwright asked.

Oh two hundred Italy time sir, looks to be mid-morning here.

Before arriving in Diego Garcia, Steele had gone from the US to Italy, where Wainwright had been conducting training on advanced interrogation methods. From there, the two had flown to their current location.

What seemed like an eternity ago, Steele and Wainwright had gone through SOFI training together. Few people knew about the military’s Special Operational Forces Interrogation group.

Wainwright got up and stretched, nodding toward his luggage on the floor across the aisle. It was an old habit. Steele had served under Wainwright for a brief time when he was in the navy.

Steele smiled to himself, grabbed his suitcase and left an irritated Wainwright to carry his own luggage. The two men deplaned and Steele was surprised by how pleasant the weather was. The phrase Indian Ocean had given him the impression it would be unbearably hot. Instead the weather was a balmy eighty